


It Rhymes with Orange

by siennna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Crush at First Sight, Eventual Romance, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Drug Use, Sober!Sherlock, Work In Progress, Young John: late 20s, Young Sherlock: mid 20s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 20:18:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2123325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennna/pseuds/siennna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At twenty-four, Sherlock Holmes finds happiness in drugs, investigating murders, and little else. Of course, when his nosy older brother intervenes and takes all of it away, Sherlock must find not only a new source of distraction, but a place to live as well. Coincidentally, Mike's friend--a recently discharged army doctor with a penchant for jumpers and the bluest eyes Sherlock's ever seen--happens to be able to provide both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Rhymes with Orange

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters. Only the plot and characterizations are mine. 
> 
> I wrote this a month ago and it has just been gathering dust, so I decided to finally post it! I'm not sure when chapter two will be out, so make sure to subscribe!
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

At twenty-four years old, Sherlock Holmes liked to think of himself as immortal.

Of course, being that he was a very logical man, he knew that wasn't actually true – he'd die one day just like anyone else. But since he didn't fear death, he felt that made him as close to untouchable as one could get. It was so pedestrian, so _dull_ , to dread an inevitability. He found that his time was much better spent testing the limits of his own existence rather than fearing them. He suspected that he was an anomaly as far as people went: an outsider so far above it all that he could teeter along the high wire of danger and never fall because even if he did, _he didn't care_ , and that meant he'dnever truly lose.

Most of his life was spent testing the hypothesis of how far he could push himself. He endlessly reached out in the dark and wondered, where are the lines drawn?

He loved standing at the edge, the precipice between life and death, electric and abuzz and holding onto his heartbeat by a mere thread. Whether that sensation came from a three-inch needle plunged into his forearm or a particularly dangerous encounter with a murderer, he didn't care. It was _wonderful._

The only problem was this: it was such a delicious feeling, an unbelievably beautiful high, that whenever he was not experiencing it the world became _unbearable._

Outside of his flat, gray cars would speed by soundlessly and muted voices would spill from blurry mouths on formless faces. Idiots said idiotic things and he would feel too bored with everything to snap and snarl or even care. The blue seeped from the sky and even his own reflection lacked color and shape. Life became slow and syrupy. It was times like these that he would find himself sprawled across the sofa, features slack, thoughts sluggish and dull, wondering impassively if he could fling his shoe accurately enough to make it land in the adjacent chair.

Then, the drugs would be restocked or a new file of cases would appear on his doorstep and the gray would vanish in favor of bright, neon-greens and jarring violets. Voices became wild symphonies of lies, compliments, Smalltalk, laughter, sobs, confessions, all blending and twisting inside his mind like colorful tendrils of smoke. Everything sped up; the hands on his clock whirled around the face like a propeller and before he knew it, it had been three days since he'd eaten or slept. But, see, that didn't matter! Not when the cars drove by so quickly and the murderers left clever trails for him to track and the sky beamed fluorescent-blue and mottled azure. Nothing mattered, least of all his _transport._

And he would've been content to continue living this way – trapped between the highest of highs and the dreariest of lows – until the day he died, if only his meddling brother hadn't stepped in.

. . .

It was during a winter month (he was too high at the time to care for calendars, so he wasn't sure specifically which one) when, after a particularly careless dance with death, Mycroft told him:

"Sherlock, one day, when you finally understand the value of life, your margin for foolish stunts will decrease _dramatically_ ," he exhaled loudly through his nose and glanced away. "Until then, however, I will be forced to handle such regulations myself. Congratulations, brother, your surveillance level has just been increased to _four."_

Sherlock would have retorted then, but he had vomit all down the front of his shirt, no trousers, and, to make matters worse, he was on the floor as well which really didn't put him into any position to make smart remarks. Besides, the last dregs of cocaine were still pumping through his system, so he felt neither able nor inclined to formulate a worthy reply. (Considering how thick and useless his tongue felt, he wasn't sure if he was capable of speech, full stop).

Something vague dribbled out, though, without his consent. He hoped it sounded somewhat intelligent, but judging by the immediate distaste on his brother's face it most likely hadn't been.

In response to whatever Sherlock slurred out, Mycroft snapped: "Yes, actually, brother, I _do_ have the right to control what you do, as long as what you're 'doing' involves overdosing on the floor of your kitchen." He tapped his umbrella against his left leg once, twice, then sighed. "This is it, Sherlock. You're twenty-four—far too old to be behaving like a spoilt, careless child. This is the last time I simply step aside while you carelessly toss your life away," he cleared his throat and squatted down to meet Sherlock's eyes. The fact that his brother was not standing erect was so uncharacteristic that even amidst his drug-induced haze, Sherlock felt shock rip cleanly through him. He lifted his cheek from the cold linoleum tile to stare at Mycroft.

Mycroft leaned forward until Sherlock was forced to either meet his gaze or go cross-eyed from his proximity. In a low, grave tone he said, "Clean yourself up, eat a meal, and then sleep for a few hours. After that, you can do whatever you like, provided it is not drugs or a wild drinking binge. I highly doubt you would have even considered the latter, but I am in a fairly distrusting mood at the moment and decided to say it anyway, just so we do not run the risk of misunderstandings. Absolutely do not _dare_ lay a finger on anything remotely recreational, Sherlock, or you shall find that Scotland Yard is suddenly capable of handling cases without the help of a certain consulting detective," his upper lip curled in disdain. "I believe you will discover that life without your precious cocaine _and_ your cases is an existence you'd rather not endure. I instead recommend taking my kind offer of a life bursting with criminals and mystery, sans drugs." Mycroft rose from his crouch and resumed his pristine posture, absently smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. "Do not test me, brother. As you've snippily claimed, I _am_ the British government, and if you think I do not possess enough power to make my brother's life unpleasant, then you are sadly mistaken."

After Mycroft left, everything felt quite… ugly. He hadn't noticed before, but his flat was an absolute disaster. Dirty dishes – covered with various fluids and slimy residues, not food – towered to the ceiling, cigarette butts littered the floor like confetti, and the corduroy mess that he loosely referred to as his couch – and sole piece of furniture - was toppled over with a few springs breaking through its fabric. Sherlock dragged himself into a standing position by holding the edge of the counter and hauling himself up, his arms quivering and straining in a way that made him glad no one else was here to see him look so pathetic. He stumbled down the hallway, hands blindly patting down the walls in search of the second doorknob to the left, which led into his small, dingy bathroom.

Once he was in front of the mirror, he peeled the sticky shirt off, cringing at both the smell and sight of it. He didn't bother looking at his reflection until he was down to just his pants and the one sock he wore on his left foot (the right one had burned up in an unfortunate accident involving a broken microwave and an overheated coil). He usually never bothered to stare at his reflection – whenever he had, he just thought he looked odd – but right then he felt the strangest impulse to scrutinize himself.

Sherlock decided to start with the basics: he was rather tall – exactly six feet, one inch – and thin. Part of that came from his complete disregard for nutrition, but the Holmes family was also naturally quite lean, so in order to shift a bit of blame off himself he decided to chalk it up to genetics. He didn't mind being skinny, though; if anything it made the examination of his bones easier, which was quite useful after waking up from a bender and inspecting his possibly fractured ribs/femurs/wrists (because apparently 'high Sherlock' was often under the impression that he was invincible)

Interested, Sherlock ran a long, skeletal finger down his sternum, carefully tracing the ribs that branched from it. He turned around and found that he could see his spine quite clearly when he hunched his shoulders forward, each vertebra neatly in line beneath his colorless skin. The human body was actually quite fascinating, he decided, examining the way the muscles of his shoulders tightened and flexed when he held his arms over his head.

As for his face, he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. During his brief 'see, I can socialize!' stint at uni, he'd been told he was handsome by both genders, though he'd been so thoroughly uninterested on each occasion that the compliments had rolled right off of him. Now, though, he was a bit more interested in examining their comments. He stared at his reflection and attempted to review his face unbiasedly.

His cheekbones were high-placed and sharp, making his face appear gaunt even in full health, and his eyes were some undefinable color he didn't care about (a boy once told him they were like the ocean during a storm or something, but he couldn't remember the rest because he'd stopped paying attention the minute the fool began waxing poetic).

He contemplatively held his bottom lip between his thumb and index finger, examining the shape and feel of it for the first – and probably last – time. After twisting his mouth into several shapes and examining his puckered lips from every angle, he decided they looked a lot like his Aunt Cornelia's: full on the bottom with a dramatic upper lip that rose high at its peaks and then dipped low into the valley of the philtrum. Or, as someone of a simpler mind might describe it, cupid's bow-shaped. His neck was long and pale and prominently veined; on one occasion the word "graceful" had come up, but since he had no idea how someone's throat could graceful, he'd just sneered at the girl who'd said it and immediately deduced her entire life, right down to the foot fetish and kleptomania. Suffice to say, she hadn't considered him so _dashing_ after that.

The only physical trait he actually liked was his hair. It was unruly, wild, black as midnight, and his refusal to comb it neatly back had always been a great source of frustration for both his mother and Mycroft. In Sherlock's opinion, his unkempt curls were not only the embodiment of his reckless, untamable spirit, but a daily act of rebellion as well. He ruffled his hands through his hair and further disheveled it. Satisfied with his brief self-inspection, he then set about the task of cleaning the vomit, sweat, and chemical residue from his skin. He considered taking a shower but quickly drew the conclusion that standing upright for an extended period of time was _at best_ overly ambitious. So, he instead decided on a bath.

He shakily walked over to the cracked, nicotine-yellow tub, not bothering to remove his shorts or singular sock, and lowered himself into it. His arms once again quivered rather pathetically and he made a mental note to work on his upper body strength a bit, just so that he didn't resemble an old man every time he attempted to support himself. Cocaine did many wonderful things, but it certainly did not help one's physical aptitude.

With a groan, he realized how difficult it was going to be to actually draw his bath, as the faucet had long since been knocked off, leaving behind a large hole with a pipe peeking from it. In order to fill the tub he would have to kick the wall a few times and wait for the water to dribble through the fissure. However, since he was still somewhat high, he ended up missing the wall by a few inches, instead kicking his heel right into the hole and, unfortunately, the sharp pipe protruding from it.

"Bugger! Damn! Hell…." He hissed in pain initially, but after a moment realized the sting wasn't entirely unpleasant. Curious, he dropped his bleeding heel onto the pipe again, this time focusing on the jarring clarity it brought rather than the sensation itself. His mind was suddenly sharper, and the heavy, dull feeling that'd been weighting him down lifted. Interesting. Self-inflicted pain had never been something he turned to for distraction, but with his drugs gone, perhaps…

He was abruptly torn from his thoughts when he heard the tell-tale beep of his mobile. For a moment he wasn't sure why his phone was in the bathroom, before remembering that he'd tossed it there a few nights ago when he'd been retching over the toilet bowl. Sherlock reached down beside the toilet and plucked it from the floor. He immediately switched it on and tapped in the passcode. The tub was still empty so he ran no risk of dropping the device into water, though even if it had been full he would have felt equally unconcerned.

_I checked your surveillance and I cannot say I am pleased with my findings. Self-harm does not suit you, brother. –MH_

Sherlock's nostrils flared. He'd just seen Mycroft a bloody _half hour ago_ and he was already interfering? He dropped his phone to the bottom of the tub and scoured the small bathroom for Mycroft's camera. Nothing out of place, nothing strange or visibly tampered with except for… _ah_. Obvious. He scowled and rose primly from the tub, walked over to his shelf of various jars and vials, and plucked the small, black camera from its perch atop a flask of oleic acid. The device was no bigger than his fingernail. He stared directly into it with a glare.

"I'd appreciate it if you kept your cameras to yourself, Mycroft. You've already taken my drugs, _do_ allow me the small luxury of privacy," Sherlock hissed, before turning and dropping the camera into the toilet. He slammed the lid shut and stepped on the tank handle so hard it nearly snapped off.

He moved back over to the tub, fuming, and dropped his shorts and single sock. He swiped the bar of soap from the sink and stepped in.

This time when he settled back in the tub, his heel tacky with dried blood, he was forced to recognize that Mycroft had saved him from yet another bad decision. Begrudgingly, he poured hydrogen peroxide over his foot and let it hang out of the tub to dry, while he thumped the wall and waited for the slowly-dripping pipe to fill the tub.

About two hours later, Sherlock was bathed, clothed, and had regained a decent amount of color. Plus, he'd only crumbled to the floor once on his way from the bathroom to the kitchen, which, in his opinion, was an accomplishment that certainly merited a reward.

He peered around the kitchen pensively, before a thought seized him and a devious grin spread across his face.

Perhaps a bit of chaos was in order?

He danced throughout the kitchen, opening then slamming cupboards, tossing coffee grounds and cigarette ash from their respective piles onto the floor, and generally just making his already decrepit kitchen even worse. He hummed a long-forgotten ballad by Vivaldi while he did so, doing pirouettes as he glided across the debris-littered floor. He stared contemplatively at the large pile of dishes, tapped his chin in mock consideration, and then swung his flattened palm at the tower in one decisive swipe, sending various tableware flying in all directions. They fell to the floor with a satisfying crash, and he couldn't resist the urge to grin manically. He absently wondered if he was still high—probably—but also found that he didn't care much at the moment, as he swept yet another hill of soil/cigarette ash/coffee grounds onto the floor.

Wreaking havoc felt deliciously liberating, but he knew that the pleasure would be fleeting, so without giving his destroyed flat a second glance, he pulled his coat on and walked out the door.

After loitering throughout London half-sober (the cocaine was still pounding thinly through his veins) and getting into a series or almost-fights and skirmishes (wrong word, wrong tone, wrong time), he returned home.

He found himself inordinately tired and collapsed into bed within five minutes of being in his flat. Right before he fell asleep, he thought to himself that sobering up wasn't quite as tricky as he assumed. He still felt pretty good, if not a bit buzzed. With a vague smirk he rolled onto his side and allowed unconsciousness to claim him.

. . .

Detoxing, as it turned out, was a bitch.

The next morning when Sherlock woke up in his bed, he was struck by two noteworthy thoughts. One: this was the first time in quite a while that he had awoken in his own flat, let alone his own bed, being that his usual night schedule involved skulking around London, either high or endeavoring to be. And two: his head was fucking _killing him_.

Sherlock had never really wondered what it'd feel like to have several bowling balls rolling around in his skull, but thanks to this massive, unprecedented case of withdrawal, he now had the answer. He sprinted into the bathroom and fell to his knees before the toilet, bracing himself against the bowl in anticipation of the retching that was sure to come. After a long, headache-filled three minutes, he realized nothing was going to happen. He sighed in relief and sagged against the wall, still sitting on the floor. A throbbing head he could take. In fact, considering the usual effects of withdrawal, this was quite mild—

Which was the last lackadaisical thought he had, before his internal monologue was cut short as a new, even worse sensation spread through his body: white-hot, by-the-book Paranoia. "Jesus Christ what the bloody—" Sherlock smacked his palm against the skinny plane of his chest, alarmed that his heart was beating faster than a hummingbird's wings. He hopped up from the grimy floor and hunched over the sink, where he cupped his shaking, thin hands underneath the stream of water and splashed his face.

_He needs to calm down, calm the hell down, relax, slow his heartbeat, calm…_

The headache, probably offended that it had been forgotten in the wake of more demanding sensations, chose then to return with vengeance. Sherlock groaned and reflexively slapped his wet hand to his face, rubbing his palm uselessly across his forehead in an attempt to ease the pain.

Using the distant part of his mind that was somehow still processing coherent thought, he tried to recall the typical effects of withdrawal. He stoppered up the sink and waited for it to fill, in the meantime, shuffling through his mind palace in search of his 'Aftereffects of Cocaine' file. As soon as the water was overflowing in the sink, he promptly dunked his head in, pushing air bubbles out through his nose.

While submerged, his messy thoughts untangled themselves to a point of decent comprehensibility and he began haphazardly attempting to assess his current state.

_Withdrawal results in—ah, yes—heart attacks, quite likely, cocaine makes the arteries constrict and—boom—heart explodes, though in young people it mostly just results in heart disease later in life—ha! I'm young, right? Yes I'm twenty…twenty four and something-odd days I believe. Okay so heart attack, yes that's in the cards, that explains why my heart rate is skyrocketing—ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. Alrighty then what about the brain, the mind, the noodle, the body's computer—aha! Yes, yes well cocaine makes the vessels constrict, resulting in strokes and—oh, not fun—seizures! Hmm, yes, let's see, what else…Kidney failure, ulcers, arrhythmia, no not fun at all. Yes, well, now there is also a mishmash of emotional sensations as well! Such as paranoia—increase in heart rate plus the dregs of adrenalin left in the brain equals a good old case of the heebie-jeebies. Yes, then there's classic anxiety and fear and exhaustion, a proneness to violence and strong irritability and-_

Sherlock lifted his head from the basin, gulping down air like a drowning man. Sopping-wet, he ambled into the sitting room and collapsed on the floor. There was not enough room around him, however, so he staggered back to his feet and pushed all of the furniture—which in total included his couch and coffee table—against the far wall. After the grueling ten minutes the task required, he fell down onto the filthy carpet and spread himself out like a starfish, his eyes glued to the ceiling. He could breathe a bit easier now that he was supine and dripping with cold water, but his headache and heart still pounded persistently. As he lain there, he realized with numb surprise that this was the first time in about three years that he had followed a high-day with a jarringly sober one. Cocaine was tricky because it made him feel like a superhero when he was plunging the needle deep into the fleshy bulge of his vein, but if he tried going even a day without it, his beautiful, colorful world came crashing down around him like a house of cards.

Actually, you know what? What was the point of this whole _sobriety_ thing anyway? It wasn't as if he had a wife and kid to consider or a great job he was in danger of losing. Well, actually he _did_ have a job to lose, but that hardly mattered. If he could just get his hands on enough cocaine, then detective work wouldn't even be of import! He could live out his fleeting days with a needle in his arm and no worries on his sharp, delightfully alert mind.

His resolve to just give in strengthened with every painful, passing minute. By two in the afternoon—or maybe five, he wasn't sure how long he'd been lying there in a puddle of his own sweat—he was completely convinced sobriety was not the road for him.

And you know what? Screw Mycroft and his stupid virtues. Life was essentially pointless so why not go out with a bang?

Decided, Sherlock patted hands down his sides for his trouser pocket where he kept his mobile. With blurry vision, he scrolled to the name of his dealer—Myles or something? He couldn't quite remember.

Sherlock didn't wait to hear him say 'hello' before immediately stuttering out, "I-I need more, I have some money in th-the bottom of my mattress, just give me more. Meet me at m-my place and bring as much as you c-c-can." Weakly, he dropped the mobile near the side of his head and promptly passed out.

. . .

"Sherlock, rise and shine," a voice sang. It was not a comforting sound, it was one that unaccountably made his skin crawl.

Sherlock made a noise of complaint as the backs of his eyelids turned bright from the light someone had evidently just turned on. "Mmmf."

"Sherlock, I would hate to raise my voice…"

"Mmf."

" _Sherlock Holmes, time to wake up!"_ The abrupt shift from hush tones to blaring decibels was enough to snap Sherlock into full consciousness. He blearily examined the room without lifting his head and found that he was in the same positon he'd been in earlier: on his dirty floor, sweating as if it were July, with his sticky mobile lying next to his head.

Mycroft's face swam into view, his expression colored with distaste.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes, brother dear, it appears you mistakenly called _me_ instead of your beloved dealer." Mycroft poured himself a cup of tea from a metal canteen he'd clearly prepared elsewhere. Sherlock found he was not offended: he'd seen the state of his kitchen, no one in their right mind would ever attempt to prepare consumable substance in there. "Myles Gordon has been apprehended, by the way," he informed him airily. "There appears to have been an anonymous tipper who gave a helpful address and stack of files on all of his possible hiding spots and drug dens. Lovely of them, don't you think? Unfortunately for you, Sherlock, that means your friendly neighborhood pusher will no longer be in business."

Sherlock was far past being prideful, and thus had absolutely no qualms about saying, "I just wanted my damn drugs, Mycroft." It sounded useless and petulant—because it _was_ —but he felt a small amount of satisfaction in voicing it.

Drily, Mycroft replied, "Really now? And here I thought you consulted Myles for social reasons."

"Mycroft, would you really deny me on my death bed?" Sherlock draped his an arm over his eyes, partially to emphasize his distress, but mostly because it was too bloody bright in here. It was as if the ceiling was fixed with several, ten thousand-watt searchlights all aimed directly at him.

Mycroft took a sip of his sugarless tea. "This is hardly your death bed, Sherlock. Though," he glanced around the grimy flat with distaste, "it certainly smells like death. You should really consider cleaning. Or at the very least, hire help,"

Sherlock attempted to prop himself up on his elbows, but the black spots that dashed before his vision quickly made him reconsider. He laid back down on the carpet and settled with glaring at Mycroft from his supine position. "I do not require 'help'. I've already told you what I _do_ require but you refuse,"

Mycroft shot him a flat, humorless smile. "Yes, well. My apologies for denying you your precious drugs, brother mine. Once you think up something else you desire, feel free to make requests. Perhaps that eye patch you once begged Mummy and Father for?"

"That was primary school, Mycroft."

The corner of Mycroft's mouth lifted into a sardonic smile. "I see no difference between now and then. You're still whining on the floor and asking for things you know you're better off without,"

Sherlock shut his eyes and threw his other forearm across his face—Christ why was it so bright in here? It felt like his eyeballs were frying. Also, his head seemed to be filled with cotton and his mouth was arid and foul-tasting. His heart had at least slowed down, but the headache and general discomfort persisted.

"It's too bright in here," he complained.

"Hardly."

"Turn off all these god-damned lights, Mycroft, I know you only put them on to bother me," Sherlock groaned.

Mycroft took another sip of his tea, as unperturbed as anything, and made a point of flicking on the nearby lamp. "Whatever do you mean?"

Sherlock made another vain attempt at sitting up, but a rather insistent bout of dizziness forced him to immediately sink back down again. He twisted his face into an even fiercer scowl to compensate. "Damn you. Why must you always interfere in my life? I was perfectly content here until you showed up and stole my personal belongings."

Mycroft eyed him unsympathetically. "Yes, Sherlock, that's all quite true; I readily admit to 'stealing your personal belongings', as you so eloquently phrased it. If you were planning on mourning the loss of your needles and cocaine for a long period of time, I highly recommend letting go of that right now as they will never be returned to your possession. And in regards to how supposedly 'content you were': I really do not think many would define 'content' as getting high on their kitchen floor,"

"Well, I am not most people."

"True. But I happen to be among that group and since my power greatly outranks yours, my virtues reign supreme. Perhaps you are content to bog your veins with rubbish, but I refuse to allow it.

"It is clear my warnings were not explicit enough, so perhaps I will have to take this one step further than surveillance level four. Congratulations, Sherlock, you have just been promoted to level ten. Would you like to know what that entails?"

Sherlock resolutely stared at the ceiling. Mycroft smirked. "Yes, well, it means that you and I will now have the pleasure of working together, isn't that splendid? Because apparently I cannot leave you to your own devices without an attempt at self-harm or a desperate call to your dealer. After I leave you will shower, dress, and then sleep for at least eight hours. After that you will report to me at exactly ten AM at the Diogenes Club tomorrow for information on your new job—no need to look surprised, you will require distraction now that the drugs are gone and I am readily prepared to provide it. Once you've been situated at your nice little job, you will receive a schedule detailing all of your tasks and duties as well as the days you will be required to show up: all days save for Sundays. I offer you Sunday not under the assumption that you will use it for religious purposes—though that is an amusing notion indeed—but because I have additional plans for you then as well. We shall cross that bridge when we get to it, however, so I won't go into too much detail. You will be paid a fair salary.

"If you require more incentive, then here are your consequences if you fail to comply: Not only will I blacklist your services at every police station within Britain, but I will also call Mummy for a little family intervention. Now then," Mycroft stood and smoothed down the front of his suit, gathering his black umbrella from where it was leaning. "I will give you the next thirty-five seconds to adjust to that reality, and by the time I reach the front door I'd like to hear some form of confirmation so I know that all of this information has somehow cut through the withdrawal-induced fog currently clouding your brain."

Black spots be damned, Sherlock sat up with his back as straight as a post. Speechless, he watched Mycroft leisurely stroll to the door, umbrella swinging merrily at his side. His brother paused once his hand was curled around the doorknob. Sherlock could practically see Mycroft's raised eyebrows even though his back was turned.

"Fine." Sherlock managed to choke out. He clenched his hands into weak fists and gritted his teeth, feeling like the biggest fool on the planet.

Satisfied, Mycroft swung open the door. At the last moment, he turned to face Sherlock with an expression of deadly calm. "And, Sherlock, if I ever find you purchasing or endeavoring to purchase a single ounce of anything remotely recreational again I will see to it _myself_ that you are placed in the most unrelenting rehabilitation center possible. If such a place does not already exist, than I shall create one. Understand that unlike previous times I am not bluffing." He inclined his head in goodbye. "I will see you tomorrow morning. _Sober."_

* * *

_Two weeks later_

Sherlock had only thrown up once today, so he figured some sort of celebration was in order. Perhaps a nice cuppa? There was a decent café a few blocks away from his flat and he was in no mood to prepare his own tea, so he pulled on his coat and swept out the door, already mentally mapping out the quickest route. He didn't bother locking the door because he was actually hoping someone would break in and steal something. They'd be unwittingly cleaning the flat for him, which was a favor if anything. Besides, the worst case scenario involved him returning to a violent bloke mid-housebreak and that would create, at the very least, an interesting situation.

The café was actually much more pleasant than he remembered, though that could've been because it was the middle of a workday and the place was practically deserted.

"What can I get you, sir?"

_Blonde, petite, five feet three inches, seventeen years old. Prone to anxiety attacks, owns a cat, father is an alcoholic. Working here to raise enough money to run away with her boyfriend after graduation._

"Earl Grey, black with two sugars,"

"Will that be all?"

"Yes."

"That'll be three pounds, sir,"

He dug his hand into his coat pocket for the credit card he'd nicked from Mycroft a few weeks ago. He suspected that Mycroft knew he'd stolen it and had only feigned ignorance so Sherlock would keep the money, as all of his previous attempts at giving Sherlock 'handouts' had been refused vehemently. At the moment, however, Sherlock didn't care that he was being humored. If it meant a hot cup of tea in his hand and financial security in his back pocket, then so be it.

Just as the girl was handing over his drink, he heard surprised laughter behind him, accompanied by a booming: "Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes is that you?"

He immediately tensed, nearly crushing the Styrofoam cup in his hand out of anxiety. Anyone who recognized him by laughing in shock was bound to be either someone from uni or secondary school, both of which were equally unpleasant. Those people were in his past for a _reason._

When he didn't immediately turn around, the voice clarified, "It's me, Mike! Mike Stamford? Surely you haven't already forgotten."

Sherlock turned, plastering on a fake smile that felt—and probably looked like—a grimace. "Ah, yes, Mike." He considered perhaps adding 'lovely to see you' or some other form of polite rubbish, but then thought better of it because _since when had he cared about niceties?_

Mike grinned and took Sherlock's limp hand in a hardy shake. "Lovely to see you again, Sherlock. What have you been up to mate? Haven't seen you since our days at Uni! It's been—oh, how long—yeah, about a five years!"

Sherlock glanced around the café in search of an excuse to leave—perhaps a very convenient fire would engulf the boiler and force evacuation? When no disaster was forthcoming, he sagged his shoulders in defeat and mentally resigned himself to this interaction.

That was not to say Mike was unpleasant—out of all the imbeciles Sherlock had encountered, Mike was probably the most tolerable—but Sherlock was simply in no mood for idle chatter and pleasantries at the moment. He wanted to storm up to his shitty flat and drink this dreadfully unsatisfying tea while he stared at a blank, dirty wall and thought about how utterly sober he was.

On second thought.

"Yes, it has been some time. Though, I'm afraid what I've been up to will be of no interest to you."

Mike shook his head and smiled reassuringly. "I'm sure it will be. So what have you been doing?" As he spoke, he led Sherlock to an empty table in front of the window. Sherlock allowed himself to be guided like a sheep and sat down in the chair across from Mike. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do, anyway.

With no preamble, Sherlock said, "I was shooting up cocaine and chasing after serial killers, but then my brother took my cocaine and I can't take any more police cases until I'm at least six months sober, so now I just sit in my flat for hours and think about my lack of drugs. I also drink tea on occasion."

If Sherlock were inclined to wax psychological then perhaps he would conclude that his response was a self-defense tactic: a sort of 'scare them away before they get close' kind of thing. Shut relationships off before they have time to grow. Metaphorically salt the soil of a garden so the plants will die, long before failure has a chance to claim them.

Right.

However, Sherlock Holmes was not a damn psychologist, so instead of having a brief moment of introspection, he just stared at Mike with a bored expression and waited for the inevitable. Mike blinked and Sherlock expected his subsequent actions to include either quickly rising from his chair and making up a reason to leave or fixing Sherlock with a dirty look first, _then_ leaving.

Surprisingly, Mike did neither. Instead, he laughed loudly and shook his head, a look of wonder on his face. "Still as blunt as you used to be, I see." He looked more amused than anything. "I've missed that Holmes wit." Sherlock did not find it prudent to inform him that 'Holmes wit' was merely the product of social ineptitude and stark sobriety. Mike's expression grew serious as he took a contemplative sip of coffee. "But I'm sorry about the drugs problem, mate. Being sober is no easy task. My other mate's sister is actually going through the same thing right now, 'cept with her it's alcohol."

Sherlock decided that didn't merit more than a nod of acknowledgment, and returned his attention to his tea. He hardly needed to ask Mike how he'd been, as 'happily married with children and a beloved job' were written clearly in every line of his expression, each shift in his posture. Sherlock was more than content to let the silence simmer between them and did not feel particularly inclined to break it, but poor, chatty Mike was beginning to look uncomfortable and antsy. That meant he'd either choose his own topic to ramble on or attempt to force conversation by inquiring about Sherlock again, neither of which Sherlock particularly desired.

Resigned, he asked, "So, Mike, how have you been?"

The beaming grin he received in return would have probably lifted the spirits of a better man, but for Sherlock, it merely aggravated the dark cloud looming over his head, like a child poking a grizzly with a stick. While Mike eagerly yammered on about his wife Gale and his beautiful daughters and his lovely job at the lovely lab, Sherlock literally held his tongue between his teeth and forced himself not to bark something rude at the genuinely well-intentioned man. It was not in Sherlock's nature to have any sort of regard for other's emotions—which was why it was typically so easy to rattle off someone's insecurities until they became a puddle of quivering goo at his feet—but something about Mike had always given him pause. It was rare that people were consistently, unconditionally kind to him, which he made sure of by being an all-around dick to everyone he met. Mike, for some reason, had not been deterred by his prickly nature and seemed determined to stay on good terms. Even at University, Mike had been a walking-talking ball of sunshine, positivity, and good intentions, which, although grating, was also extremely refreshing in Sherlock's world of perpetual cruelty and loneliness.

He and Mike were not friends, but Sherlock liked to think of them as at least decent acquaintances. And for Sherlock Holmes, the man whose spectrum of relations varied narrowly between family, archenemies, and dealers, 'acquaintances' was an impressive label.

When it appeared that Mike had finished speaking, Sherlock nodded and said, "Good to know you're doing well."

Mike grinned and nodded, taking a swig of coffee. "So where are you living these days?"

Sherlock shrugged, glancing out the window. "Well I currently live in a decrepit little rat-hole on Travis Street, but I suspect I shall be evicted within the week. The landlord doesn't take too kindly to impromptu violin concerts at two in the morning or acid experiments on the furniture, and it is only a matter of time before he finds the mold cultures I've begun growing along the stairwell."

Mike raised his brow but wisely made no comment on that. "Well, I'm only asking because a mate of mine is looking for a flat share and I have the strangest feeling you two would get on."

Sherlock tore his gaze away from the window to give Mike an incredulous look. _"You think we would get on_?" Sherlock snorted cynically and glanced up at the ceiling, as if looking to the heavens and asking _'can you believe this guy?_ '

Undeterred, Mike nodded sagely, a faint smile on his lips. "He's a straightforward bloke like you, mate. Dry sense of humor, loyal to his core, and real smart too. He just got back from service and he's looking for a flat mate. If you're interested I could arrange a meet up, take us all out to a pub or something, my treat."

Sherlock weighed his options. If he decided to continue living in the grimy hovel on Travis Street, he'd be forced to endure not only his bugger of a landlord, but the disgusting living conditions as well. If he moved out and attempted to buy his own place that would mean siphoning a loan from his smarmy brother, which he considered the mark of true failure and the second-to-last thing he ever wanted to do.

Suddenly, this whole flat share idea wasn't sounding so bad.

Over the past few weeks, he'd accumulated enough money from his job to afford half first month's rent and this friend of Mike's didn't sound too bad.

The big conflict—the most egregious and possibly _only_ conflict—was the matter of how well they would, as Mike had put it, ' _get on'_. Sherlock was under no misconceptions: he knew he was not the most likable bloke on the block, nor was he the most normal bloke. He was well aware that his social skills were exceeded by most school children and his sobriety was as fragile as a tower of cards, and his hobbies included things most people found unsavory (read: investigating murders, dissecting corpses etcetera). He would not be surprised or disappointed if this fellow did not like him, because it would hardly be a new situation for him. In fact, the only way Sherlock could possibly feel surprised would be if—for some insane reason—the man _did_ like him.

However, that latter thought was useless and unrealistic, so Sherlock, ever the realist, shoved it down before the seed of hope could spread.

"So, are you interested?"

Sherlock took a sip of tea, feigning indifference despite the thrumming in his veins. "Yes. What is this man's name and number?"

Mike began scribbling down several digits on a napkin. When he finished, he slid the paper across the table with a smile. "His name's John Watson. I'll let him know you're interested."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> So, what do you guys think? Love it, hate it? Let me know in the comments, feedback is a glorious motivator :D 
> 
> Make sure to sub so you'll know when the next chapter's up!
> 
> Thanks for reading, darlings! 
> 
> (And If you haven't already, check out my other Sherlock fic, "Definitions"!)


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